


Sonder

by lunifs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Canon Disabled Character, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantine is alive, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Lots Of Songs???, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Romance, Support Groups, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 01:01:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18216062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunifs/pseuds/lunifs
Summary: SONDER (n.) the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—.





	Sonder

**Author's Note:**

> OH GOD. Okay, this is happening.
> 
> So, ever since August 2018, I have been trying to piece a Les Mis fic together but every idea I would get ended up being thrown out of the window after a while because I felt like it wasn't good enough. . . . Until this idea came along. 
> 
> Allow me to explain the whole chapter system : I chose eight characters from Les Mis and given them respective storylines which will be told one by one. Each character will (hopefully) have six chapters that covers their storyline.
> 
> Come scream at me on tumblr : @lunifs .
> 
> \- - - 
> 
> 1 : "Les ailes de l'espoir" means "the wings of hope" in French.
> 
> WARNING : This chapter contains mentions of suicide attempts and suicidal thoughts, substance abuse, PTSD and alcohol consumption.
> 
> SONG(S) : Seven Nation Army - The White Stripes
> 
> \- - -
> 
> " Enjolras can hear Joly saying something from beside him, but his brain doesn’t register the words - all of his focus is on the lead vocalist. From his mess of curly, dark hair to the way he looked so immersed in the performance to literally anything else, Enjolras had no idea what it was about the man that got hold of the entirety of his attention. "

The apartment was completely silent except for the sound of the television. But Enjolras wasn’t in the living-room to start with. He didn’t know how long he’s been sitting in the bath-tub, but judging from how cold the water was, he assumed that he has been in there for a while.

 

He was falling. Enjolras was falling inside his own head, inside a deep, black abyss that is familiar but not friendly. He’s been here before. He’s sat or laid in his bed, on the couch, in the bath-tub before, being unable to think of anything else besides a noose tightening around his neck, a car striking him to the ground, pills filling his stomach. And these thoughts bind him down with chains, making him not only a prisoner of the bed, the couch, the bathtub but of his own mind as well. He’s been here before, and he hates himself for it.

 

With enough strength and energy gathered, Enjolras gets out of his curled-up position and stretches his legs forward. His hands grip the porcelain edge of the tub as he begins to slowly submerge his head backwards, into the water. Soon enough, he’s completely underwater and he stares at the bathroom ceiling. He closes his eyes, finding strange comfort within the feeling of the water surrounding his entire body - it’s akin to a blanket and Enjolras plans on smothering himself with it.

 

When the lock turns with a click and the front door opens up, Enjolras doesn’t flinch. He’s too focused on the way his lungs are begging for air and the way he’s screaming __no, no, no__ right back at them.

 

“Enjolras?”

 

Combeferre’s voice sounds close and Enjolras wants to cry because _he just wanted to end it already _.__

 

But the bathroom door is swinging open and Enjolras feels Combeferre’s strong arms pulling him out of the tub, water splashing everywhere.

 

Enjolras’s legs are weak underneath him and he doesn’t last more than a second before he’s collapsing to floor. Violent coughs jostle out of his body and he feels as though his mind was broken and shattered into pieces.

 

 _“Almost,”_  he thinks to himself while Combeferre exits the bathroom. __”_ I was almost there.”_

 

A few instances later, Combeferre returns with a large, fluffy towel and drapes it around Enjolras’s shoulders. He kneels down, pulls Enjolras in for a hug but the latter simply allows himself to be propped against Combeferre’s chest.

 

“I’m sorry,” is the only thing Enjolras can bring himself to say.

 

Combeferre shakes his head from above him. “You’re going to be okay.”

 

At those words, Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut. _"Cry, sob, shout, anything."_ But he lacks even those kind of emotions. Instead, he is empty like a flower vase with no flowers to grow in it, a coffin with no body to occupy it. And Combeferre cradles him so gently against his chest, wrapping him with warmth and he whispers,

 

“You’re going to be okay.”

 

Enjolras can’t bring himself to tell Combeferre that he doesn’t believe him.

 

* * *

 

“Are you nervous?” Combeferre asks, and Enjolras turns away from the open window to find his friend slumped against the back of the driver’s seat cleaning his glasses.

 

“You know I am.”

 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre starts and calmly puts his glasses back on, tucks his wiping cloth back into the pocket of his jeans. “You have been avoiding this for weeks and now that you have finally mustered up enough courage to actually go, you’re thinking of backing out.” He pauses to inspect Enjolras’s face for a moment. “Don’t do that. Don’t doubt yourself.”

 

Enjolras heaves a sigh and glances at the building once again. For a strange reason, the exterior of it intimidates Enjolras, makes his stomach twist and his hands sweat.

 

“I’m. . . not used to this sort of thing, Ferre. I’m not one to speak about their real, _real_ emotions so easily and so openly.”

 

“I understand. But maybe actually talking about your feelings will help somehow,” Combeferre reasons. When Enjolras doesn’t say anything, he goes on. “Listen. Attend the meeting today and see how it is. If you don’t like it, then give me a call so I could pick you up early. If you _do_ like it, then stick around, maybe try to participate in the conversation every once in a while. After all, we all know you’re a champion at giving heartfelt speeches.”

 

“Combeferre, though I do appreciate the compliment, it’s not really helping me at the moment.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre softly smiles. “I just want you to relax a bit.”

 

“I know. And thank you, for all of this. I don’t mean to burden you with my. . . problems.”

 

“You are not burdening me at all, Enjolras. I’m happy to help. Now, go on. I’m worried that if you stay any longer, we’re both going to forget about the actual reason we came here in the first place.”

 

“Why does that not sound like a bad idea?” Enjolras muses aloud as he gets out of the car, earning a pointed look from Combeferre. He closes the door.

 

Combeferre cranes his head down to look at Enjolras through the window. “If anything, just give me a call and I’ll come over here as soon as possible.”

 

And then he is steering away, leaving Enjolras alone and feeling bare on the side-walk.

* * *

The moment Enjolras walks into the room, he is noticed by somebody, a woman, in her late-thirties, early-forties at most. She enthusiastically marches towards him and holds out her hand.

 

“Hi, you must be new here!” she exclaims, her blue eyes twinkling with zest. “I’m Fantine, the founder of this support group. It’s nice to meet you.”

 

Enjolras shook her hand. “I’m Enjolras. And it’s nice to meet you, too.”

 

“You can go and take a seat over there,” Fantine pointed to a circle of chairs that were placed in the middle of the room. “We’ll be starting the meeting in a couple of minutes.”

 

Enjolras nods and sits down, instantly pulling out his phone.

 

 ****To** ** ****Combeferre** ** ****[ 1:28 PM ]** **

**_**_I am already starting to think that this was a mistake._ ** _ **

**_**** _ **

A couple of seconds later, his phone goes off with a high-pitched __ping__.

 

 ****From** ** ****Combeferre** ** ****[ 1:28 PM ]** **

_****Calm down. You’ll be fine.** ** _

_**** _

****From** ** ****Combeferre** ** ****[ 1:29 PM ]** **

_****And before you get paranoid and ask, no, I am not texting while driving. I’m at the gas station.** ** _

_**** _

****To** ** ****Combeferre** ** ****[ 1:29 PM ]** **

_****I honestly do not know how you convinced me to do this.** ** _

_**** _

****From** ** ****Combeferre** ** ****[ 1:30 PM ]** **

_****I suppose that makes the two of us.** ** _

_**** _

Before Enjolras knows it, the chairs around him are filled up and the meeting begins. He puts his cell-phone away.

 

“To the regular members, hello, it is nice to see you again. To the new members, hi and welcome to _Les ailes de l’espoir_ 1,” Fantine says. “This is a support group for people with mental illnesses who would like to talk about their problems and their worries. This is meant to be a safe space for everybody to feel comfortable and at peace.

 

Now, for the sake of the newcomers, I’ll break the ice by sharing a bit of my story. My name is Fantine. I am thirty-eight years old and I am clinically diagnosed with major depressive disorder. I am also a former substance abuser, which does somewhat tie in with my mental illness. Although I am not obviously cured from my depression for good, I __am__ living a better life than I used to and I have been clean for about eight years now.”

 

Fantine then scanned the circle of people. “So,” she claps her hands together. “Who would like to go next?”

 

One man offers to speak; Enjolras takes in his appearance. He is young, most likely to be around Enjolras’s age, with short, honey brown hair and jade green eyes. He hesitantly holds his left hand up in the air while his right one rests upon the offset handle of a black quad-tipped cane, teeth nervously digging into his lower lip.

 

“Oh yes, Joly, go ahead,” Fantine says, beaming.

 

“Uh, well,” the man wipes his right hand against the fabric of his pants. “My name is Joly. I am twenty years old. I have panic disorder, depression and PTSD.”

 

“And how are you feeling today?”

 

“I’m feeling okay,” Joly answers with a sheepish smile.

 

“We’re here for you, Joly,” Fantine reassures.

 

Then everybody else echoes after her, “We’re here for you, Joly.”

 

“Enjolras,” Fantine turns to the latter, offers a look of empathy. “How about you give it a go?”

 

He straightens his back and clears his throat. “Hi, uh, my name is Enjolras. I am twenty years old and I have depression.”

 

“And how are you today, Enjolras?”

 

“I’m. . .good,” Enjolras answers, nodding repeatedly. “I’m good.”

 

“We’re here for you, Enjolras,” everybody says in unison, before allowing another stranger to introduce themselves.

 

Bashful, Enjolras looks down at his hands. Maybe support group isn’t as bad as he thought it would be.

 

* * *

 

“So?” Combeferre inquires once Enjolras enters the car. “How was it?”

 

“Well, it was pleasant,” Enjolras replies, fastening his seat-belt. “Most of the people there are very decent, very kind.”

 

“Yes, but did _you_ personally enjoy it?”

 

“I guess so,” Enjolras shrugged his shoulders and glanced to the side to see Combeferre trying to suppress a large grin. “What?”

 

“I’m just so proud of you,” Combeferre confesses, making Enjolras chuckle, and starts up the engine.“You deserve a milk-shake.”

 

“Combeferre, you do not need to waste your money on me,” Enjolras protests as they pull out of their parking spot.

 

“It’s true that I don’t _need_ to. But I want to,” Combeferre tells him, eyes focused on the road. “Now, what flavor would you like?”

 

Enjolras hums, slouching in his seat. “Vanilla?”

 

“Vanilla it is, then.”

 

* * *

 

Much to Combeferre’s pleasure, Enjolras winds up attending the next Sunday meeting of the support group. After an hour of listening to Fantine speak about the importance of the “small things in life”, Enjolras is walking out of the door, already having a text message sent to Combeferre, when he spots Joly at the top of the stair-case. He has his left hand gripping the handle of his cane while the other one holds onto the railing. He has his right leg stretched out in front of him, his face twisted in discomfort.

 

“Joly,” Enjolras calls out, walking towards him.

 

Said man looks over his shoulder, a self-conscious smile settling onto his face. “Enjolras, hello.”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Joly glances at his leg then back at Enjolras. “Oh yes, it’s just that, uh- my joint is locked and it’s preventing me from, well, going down the stairs, as you can see.”

 

A frown tugs at the edges of Enjolras’s lips. “Are you able to sit down?”

 

“I think so? I just need to-” Joly hops on his left leg with much difficulty, moving his cane forward at the same time. Once he is close enough to the first step of the stair-case, Enjolras helps him sit down.

 

“Is there anything I can do for you or. . ?”

 

“Well, uh, there is one thing but if you feel uneasy doing it, I could just call my boyfriend up, it’s fine,” Joly says.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Could you just push on my knee joint? That way, it will unlock. But of course, if you don’t want to-”

 

“No, I don’t mind. I can do it,” Enjolras told Joly, stooping lower and taking a seat near the other’s legs. “Um, I just don’t know where-”

 

“It’s below the knee-cap,” Joly informs him.

 

“Right, okay,” Enjolras says then flushes when Joly laughs. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No, you’re good. You just seem very nervous, even more than me.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras repeats, his cheeks warming up in embarrassment.

 

“Don’t be,” Joly tells him. “And don’t be so tense either.”

 

Enjolras nods his head and places both of his thumbs underneath the man’s knee-cap. “Ready?”

 

Joly gives him a curt “yes” then he is pushing on the joint. From above him, Joly is gripping onto the edge of the step as he hisses in pain. Enjolras removes the pressure against the joint.

 

“Why’d you stop?”

 

“Was I not hurting you?” Enjolras inquires, concern knitting into the crease between his eyebrows.

 

Joly softly smiles. “Enjolras, the joint will always hurt when there is pressure on it.”

 

“Oh,” Enjolras utters. “Oh, okay.”

 

He resumes his ministrations and after several seconds, Enjolras feels something move beneath his touch.

 

Joly, who had been seized by the discomfort shooting through his knee, relaxes, his shoulders dropping down. A sigh of relief leaves his lips and he reaches for his cane.

 

“Thank you. That- that is much better.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Enjolras says and gets up. “May I accompany you to the bottom of the stairs? It’s where I’m headed anyways.”

 

“That would be nice, yes,” Joly accepts contentedly.

 

Once they got outside, a man leaning against a car sees Joly and rushes over to him.

 

“I was getting worried!” he cries.

 

“Of course you were,” Joly chuckles, wrapping his arm around the man. “My knee got locked up.”

 

“What? Why didn’t you call me?”

 

“Because I already had someone else to help me,” Joly gestures to Enjolras. “Bossuet, Enjolras. Enjolras, Bossuet.”

 

Bossuet grins. “Thanks for helping Joly.”

 

“It was no problem.”

 

From the corner of Enjolras’s eye, he could see Combeferre’s car pull up in front of the building.

 

“I have to go now but it was really nice meeting you, Bossuet,” Enjolras looked at Joly. “I’m assuming we’ll be seeing each other next Sunday?”

 

“Yup,” Joly answers cheerfully, and with that, the three of them part ways.

 

* * *

 

Next Sunday for Enjolras comes with a large tide of fatigue and lethargy washing over him after the previous day was spent alternating between his eyes glued to his laptop screen and his nose buried in books. Enjolras drops down onto a chair and covers his face with his hands, his eyes instantly fluttering shut.

 

A minute or two passes and Enjolras can’t help but feel like passing out right then and there, but then he hears somebody calling his name and he forces himself to take his foot out of the nice ocean of sleep he found himself standing before in his head.

 

Enjolras glances in the direction of where the voice was coming from. Joly is walking towards him and Enjolras forces a weary smile.

 

“Hi,” Joly chirps. “Can I sit here?”

 

“Yes, of course,” Enjolras answers and regains his posture, despite the soreness that is plaguing the muscles of his back and shoulders.

 

“Okay, so we’ll be doing a little exercise today,” Fantine announces once everyone has been seated. “We’re going to go through the entire circle and everybody is going to compliment the person to their right. It can be about their appearance or their personality, either one is acceptable. The goal of this exercise is to show not only empathy but also openness to those around us, as it helps us create stronger bonds and acknowledge each other’s qualities to get rid the thoughts that we are nothing but our weaknesses or flaws.”

 

When they get to Enjolras’s turn, he faces Joly, who simply smiles timidly at him, showing two dimples on either cheek.

 

“I like, uh, your dimples,” Enjolras then says, a string of awkwardness threading itself through his bones.

 

Joly stifles a chuckle. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

 

Once the meeting was brought to the end, Enjolras exits the room with Joly by his side. They begin to descend the stair-case when Joly, clearly amused, remarks,

 

“Complimenting people doesn’t seem to be one of your strengths.”

 

“No, it’s not,” Enjolras admits. “And it is the same thing with receiving compliments as well.”

 

They get past the front entrance and Enjolras takes in a deep breath of the September air. The contrast of its coolness against Enjolras’s warm skin makes him feel a bit more awake.

 

“Bossuet isn’t here,” Enjolras observes out loud when he realizes that the splash of raisin-purple is missing from the line of parked vehicles.

 

“He’s probably stuck in traffic,” Joly guesses and moves to stand by the brick wall of the building.

 

“I could wait with you if you’d like,” Enjolras offers. “Combeferre is spending his entire day at the library to get some kind of essay done so I’ll be using the public bus to get back home.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home and catch up on some sleep?” Joly questions, concern lacing his voice.

 

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Joly doesn’t push the conversation any further. Instead, he nods and the two of them are soon plunged into a pleasant silence. Enjolras takes this as an opportunity to close and rest his eyes.

 

“You know,” Joly finally speaks again, “The only thing I like about Sundays is support group.”

 

“I never thought about it that way,” Enjolras replies. “But now that you mention it, I look forward to Sundays more than I used to. Usually, I would dread Sundays.”

 

“Because you would have to go back to school the next day?”

 

“Yep,” Enjolras sighed.

 

“Law school must be stressful.”

 

“What do you study, Joly?”

 

“Medicine.”

 

At this newly-acquired information, Enjolras snorts with laughter, opens his eyes. “Isn’t it the same then?”

 

Joly shrugs. “I guess it depends on each person and how much pressure they can take.”

 

“Well, this person,” Enjolras gestures to himself. “Is in desperate need of a break from all the pressure he is taking.”

 

Joly lightly chuckles at this. “You _should_ put the books away at some point, even if it’s just for a day.”

 

“Yeah, but. . .”

 

“But what?”

 

“I feel like nothing is going to distract me from working. At least not anymore. It’s strange, I can’t bring myself to enjoy the things I used to do to pass time or to have fun.”

 

“You mean like hobbies and whatever?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, what kind of hobbies were they?” Joly inquires, and Enjolras pauses to think.

 

“I used to read a lot. I would go to the local library several times in a week to borrow books, give back books. . . And I jogged a lot too, but now all I want to do is stay in bed.“ Then Enjolras’s eyes lit up like a candle. “Oh, and I watched lots of documentaries. Most of them were about unsolved mysteries or crime, though.”

 

“Hmm,” Joly tilts his head to the side. “It’s understandable that you’re no longer able to enjoy those kind of hobbies.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah. Your brain has now adapted to things like studying and working and taking in lots of information at once that it doesn’t have any space left for some self-indulgent activities.”

 

Enjolras smiles a little. “I’m sorry for saying this, Joly, but you sound more like a psychiatrist than a doctor right now.

 

“Maybe I do, but at least what I just told you is true. You do need to let loose for a while,” Joly says and shifts around a bit. “Enjolras.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I, um, need to sit down; my joints are getting tired.”

 

“Oh,” Enjolras pokes his head to peer past Joly. “There’s a bench right there.”

 

Once the two of them have sat down, Joly continues,

 

“So, I think that you should let loose.”

 

Enjolras hesitates. “What is your definition of ‘letting loose’?”

 

“Anything that helps you relieve some stress. Like. . .” Joly broke off to contemplate all of the possibilities. “Oh! You could come on Friday.”

 

“What’s on Friday?”

 

“Bossuet and his band are performing at Corinthe.”

 

Enjolras raises his eyebrows. “You mean the bar Corinthe?”

 

“Yep, that’s the one.”

 

Enjolras cringed. “I don’t know. I’m not the biggest fan of crowded places like that.”

 

“You don’t have to stay there all night. You can just watch the band perform, say hello and leave. Plus I’m sure Bossuet and the other guys will really appreciate an audience.”

 

“They don’t have fans of their own?” Enjolras asked.

 

“No, not really,” Joly confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re just a small group that likes to play and sing covers.”

 

“I don’t know, Joly,” Enjolras said, uncertain. “I’ll have to think about it.”

 

“Okay, well, I’ll give you my phone number just in case you’ll change your mind.”

 

Enjolras fishes his phone out and hands it to Joly. Just then, a car pulls up in front of them. Enjolras and Joly look up to see Bossuet getting out of it.

 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says guiltily.

 

“It’s fine,” Joly replies, giving his boyfriend a wave of his hand and gives Enjolras his phone back after adding his phone number into it. “I was just telling Enjolras about the band.” He pushes himself up and onto his feet with his cane. “I said that he could come see you guys on Friday if he’d like.”

 

“Ooh, yeah,” Bossuet turns to Enjolras. “It’d be really cool if you came.”

 

“You can even bring your friend, the one who usually picks you up from here,” Joly suggested.

 

“You mean Combeferre?” Enjolras barks out a laugh. “I don’t think it would be his cup of tea either.”

 

“You never know. Some people can surprise you,” Joly says. “Anyways, if you do end up coming, text me in advance so I could meet you there.”

 

Enjolras nods and bids the pair goodbye. Once they are gone, he gets up and pockets his phone, already pushing the idea of going out on Friday to the back of his mind.

 

* * *

 

Come Friday evening and Enjolras finds himself lounging on the couch, John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty in his hands. He scans the words at the top of the page once, twice, thrice but no information seems to be entering his brain. Frustrated, he sits up, closes the book and tosses it onto the table.

 

The front door is pushed open and Combeferre steps in. He toes off his shoes and enters the living room. Then he drops his cross-body book-bag on the floor and throws himself onto the couch.

 

“Long day?”

 

The groan that left Combeferre’s mouth is muffled by the cushion pressed against his face. He rolls over to lay on his back, “Remember when Friday nights were actually fun?”

 

“No,” Enjolras deadpans. “Unless you still consider picking one conspiracy theory to have debates about every Friday night.”

 

“That _was_ fun,” Combeferre laughs. “Remember when we wouldn’t come to an agreement about Napoleon’s death?”

 

“Oh my gosh, stop,” Enjolras buries his face in his hands.

 

“You were ruthless!”

 

Enjolras grabs a nearby pillow and chucks it at Combeferre. “I was twelve!”

 

Combeferre gets hold of the pillow and tucks it underneath the back of his head. “You were a ruthless twelve-year-old.”

 

Enjolras lets out an exaggerated sigh and picks his book up. He mindlessly skims through the pages when he is suddenly reminded of Joly’s proposal. He freezes, giving himself a moment of reflection, then glances at Combeferre.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I was speaking with Joly the other day –he’s from support group– and he, uh, invited me to this concert thing.”

 

At this, Combeferre hoists himself up with his elbows. “A concert?”

 

“It’s more of a casual performance,” Enjolras clarifies. “Joly’s boyfriend is in a band and they’re performing at that bar, Corinthe, tonight.”

 

“Okay,” Combeferre answers slowly. “Do you want to go?”

 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras runs a hand through his blond curls. “Joly said that it would help me ‘loosen up’ because I told him I’m in need of a break from school.”

 

“That sounds reasonable to me–”

 

“But then again, I don’t want to go because it’s not really my thing. I enjoy solitude and peace, not some crowded bar with a bunch of amateurs on a stage singing songs.”

 

Combeferre chuckles. “I swear, Enj, you let yourself stress over smallest things.” He took his glasses off to rub the fatigue out of his eyes. “Just do what you want.”

 

Enjolras leans back, crossing his arms, and weighs out his options. After a moment, he speaks,

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

He narrows his eyes at Combeferre. “I’ll go to the concert on one condition.”

 

Combeferre sighs at the complexity of his friend’s conclusion. “What is it?”

 

“You’ll come with me.”

 

* * *

 

Enjolras isn’t surprised when he sees that Corinthe is just as packed as he expected it to be. After flashing their ID cards at the bouncer, he and Combeferre stand at the front of the room, as stiff as boards. The air in Corinthe is thick and slightly humid and the noise of chattering is louder than anything else.

 

“Oh god,” Enjolras mutters under his breath, feeling anxiety raking its fingernails down his body.

 

To his relief, however, his eyes soon find Joly’s approaching figure within the bustle.

 

“Enjolras! I’m so glad that you could make it,” the man turns to Combeferre. “You must be Combeferre! I’m Joly, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Combeferre replies with a smile.

 

“The guys are still back-stage, but they should be out any minute now. I also took the liberty of reserving a booth for you guys, courtesy of Musichetta. Which reminds me–” Joly twists his torso around to face the bar. “Musi!”

 

He beckons Enjolras and Combeferre to follow him and guides them to one of the edges of the bar-counter. A young woman from the other side nods at Joly before continuing to pour drinks up for a group of customers. Once she is done, she approaches them, the coils of her black hair springing up and down as she did so.

 

“Hi,” she says to Enjolras and Combeferre with a bright smile.

 

“This is Enjolras and Combeferre,” Joly puts his free hand on the woman’s. “And this is Musichetta, my girlfriend.”

 

Confused, Enjolras opens his mouth. Girlfriend? But didn’t he say that– Oh. _Oh _.__ Enjolras understands now.

 

“Do you guys want anything before we sit down?” Joly asks.

 

“I’ll have a glass of red wine,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre adds a glass of brandy on the rocks to the order.

 

Musichetta nods and goes off to get their drinks. When she comes back, she tells them, “It’s on the house. Even though my boss might have me hanging upside down for it.”

 

Enjolras and Combeferre thank Musichetta and head to their booth with Joly.

 

By the time they sit down, the stage is already occupied by four men. They get into place and almost immediately after that, the bassist strikes out the first few chords. The front-man is there, hands hovering his electric guitar and face drawn close to the microphone but it isn’t until he starts singing that Enjolras _actually_ notices him.

 

“I'm gonna fight 'em all,

A seven nation army couldn't hold me back,

They're gonna rip it off,

Taking their time right behind my back."

 

Enjolras can hear Joly saying something from beside him, but his brain doesn’t register the words - all of his focus is on the lead vocalist. From his mess of curly, dark hair to the way he looked so immersed in the performance to _literally anything else_ , Enjolras had no idea what it was about the man that got hold of the entirety of his attention.

 

 "And if I catch it coming back my way,

I'm gonna serve it to you,

And that ain't what you wanna hear,

But that's what I'll do

And the feeling coming from my bones,

Says find a home."

 

Just as the song is nearing its end, the front-man angles his head and makes direct eye contact with Enjolras, a lazy smirk breaking onto his face and–

 

_“Holy shit.”_

 

–does Enjolras feel like he’s been struck by lightning.


End file.
